by Vanessa Tait
Vanessa Tait grew up in Gloucestershire. She went to the University of Manchester and completed a Master’s degree in Creative and Life Writing at Goldsmiths College. Her debut novel, The Looking Glass House, was published in 2015. The Pharmacist’s Wife is her second novel.
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Vanessa Tait, 2018
The moral right of Vanessa Tait to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Hardback ISBN: 978 178 649 2708
Trade paperback ISBN: 978 178 649 2715
E-book ISBN: 978 178 649 2722
Printed in Great Britain
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For Tristan
CHAPTER 1
Edinburgh, 1869
Perhaps it was her shoes that were making a dent in the afternoon. Because, look there, a little monkey on a gold chain, pulling up its knees in time to the brass band that Alexander had hired; and there, the cymbals crashing away and the trombone glinting in the uneven sunlight. And see, a little further off, stalls selling saloop and whelks and whatnot, and people gathered round them, drawn from either end of Edinburgh; it was all very gay. And the pharmacy itself was looking swish, its broad window polished to a glint and – and this was the proudest part – the name above it, written very bold, in gilt lettering on the wooden board, Palmer, which was Rebecca’s name, too, these last six months, though she still could not get used to it.
The pharmacy, everyone said, would be the making of North Bridge – the road that ran between the Old Town and the New, connecting the rich part of Edinburgh with the poor. It would draw its customers from the slums and from the toffs, and take advantage of both. As Mr Badcock said, they ought not to care who’d owned the shillings before, just so long as they all flowed in their direction.
But still, and Rebecca was sad to notice it, the pump-a-rum of the trombone beat almost the same rhythm as the pulse in her big toe. She flexed her feet upwards to take the pressure off them that way, but if she leaned back a little on her heels t’would be even better … but that was too far! She had almost tipped over, she must clutch at her husband’s arm to right herself.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ said Alexander, pulling his arm away.
Rebecca snatched back her hand and clasped her fingers together. ‘Just …’
But Alexander was looking at her feet and frowning. ‘You have got your shoes stained, after all the trouble.’
‘Stained?’ Rebecca had only walked the short distance from their brougham to their place here at the front of the crowd. But she had got the heel hooked on the step – had she marked it then? She could not see without craning down to look, which would not look elegant, standing up here, as she was, as they were, she and her husband, on show. Or the shoe had got marked by the water that gathered in the indents of the pavement, hard to avoid, impossible to see. Their leather was so soft and pale and would stain as easy as a blush.
‘’Tis a pity, after all the trouble that was gone to in the measuring of your feet. All you have had to do was stand, after all,’ said Alexander, rubbing at his chin.
‘I can clean them for you, madam,’ said Jenny. ‘If you like.’
‘I don’t know how, when she is wearing them,’ her husband said.
‘Thank you, Jenny. P’raps it can wait until we get home.’ The shoes were stained, Rebecca saw it now: an uneven mark thrown carelessly over the knuckle of her smallest toe. She blinked. She was not made to wear such shoes, she had known it even as she pulled off her old black boots to make way for them, back at the house. Such pale and slender shoes should not go on her great feet, and now she had proven it, for she could not even get out of a carriage without ruining them.
‘I have brought a handkerchief,’ said Jenny, turning her face so that Alexander would not hear.
Rebecca swallowed. She did not know if her maid meant for her shoes or for her eyes. She must not cry – she was not crying! Not today. She shook her head at Jenny, tried to smile and spread out her gaze.
They stood in front of a crowd of about sixty, and now that she looked she saw that Mr Badcock had been right. A group of women from the New Town, their parasols trimmed with lace, were at the front, nodding in time to the band, but to the side of them an old lady whose skirt was held up by string – from the Old Town, of course – was staring hungrily at the food stalls. As well as those there were a number of actors, swells, tramps and other types of a more middling sort, and a dog who could have been from anywhere. It must have been attracted by the smell of burning sugar, for the first batch of lozenges Lionel had made had been ruined and thrown away behind the shop.
Try again, Rebe, ’tis a proud day, you said it yourself! Rebecca turned to her husband. ‘It is going very well, isn’t it, Alexander, just as you planned?’
‘Mr Badcock is not here yet,’ he said, picking a hair from his trousers between finger and thumb and pursing his lips.
‘But, still, it’s a proud day, Al, that’s for sure!’ Rebecca smiled hard.
Where other men sprouted beards and moustaches Alexander had nothing but skin. Even the place where his whiskers should have been was bare. Beards trapped disease inside them, he said, and made men ill. (Mr Badcock maintained that on the contrary, beards trapped bacteria on the outside and prevented them getting in.) Rebecca did not hold either opinion, she only knew that when Alexander was angry all that bareness made his face terrible.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said now, his lips tighter than ever.
Rebecca had made another mistake even as she’d tried to rectify the last. She knew what it was, and how stupid she had been to risk his displeasure! She palpated her toes against the soles of her shoes, as if she could drain away the heat from her face. Other wives had affectionate names for their husbands! She knew of a woman who called her husband Flossie, though he was not light and airy but short and fat. Rebecca had planned to try out a more familiar name for her husband today, but she saw now what she ought to have seen all along: it did not suit him, did not suit him at all.
After waiting so long … Rebecca shut her eyes and shook her head to banish the word waiting, but it was no good: it was there already, plump and falsely bright, with its ting on the end. She set her teeth and stared over at the whelk stall and forced the word to dissipate … After waiting for more than two years she had been saved from spinsterhood and all the humiliations that went with it by Alexander Palmer, proprietor of a fine pharmacy on North Bridge.
Yes, that was right. That was the story that she would tell and she would feel better for it. And now her father had died she could wait no longer, for her house was sold and everything in it was gone. But she had Mr Palmer, a husband many women would envy, and how lucky she had been to be chosen by him, just by chance, on the street!
‘I only meant, Alexander, you must be very proud. It is exactly what you hoped for – all this – is it not? And I wondered … I thought, perhaps I may get a cone of whelks. I forgot to breakfast, in the rush of the morning.’
‘Whelks?’
‘It is unconventional, I know, but I have a fondness for them.’
‘It would not look right to eat. Not street food, not here.’
‘Well, I would not—’
But Alexander twitched impatiently. ‘There he is at last,’ he said. And in front of them Mr Badcock was indeed stepping out of his brougham on his tiny feet and shouldering his way between the backs of the crowd with surprising agility.
‘Ah, John, you are late.’
‘Mrs Palmer.’ Mr Badcock caught up her hand and brought it up towards his great beard, pushing his lips down on the back of her glove. ‘A great day, a great day. I am late, I was in a desperate hurry, I was almost afraid I had missed it all!’
Alexander consulted his pocket watch. ‘No, you have not missed it. I would not start without you, as it is your money that has gone into it.’ He nodded in the direction of the large glass doors of the pharmacy with their polished brass handles, still shut.
Mr Badcock raised his eyes to heaven. ‘The good Lord would not let me miss such a day; He would not allow that to happen. And may it be the start of many great days.’ He brought the tips of his fingers to his chin and moved his lips silently. Then he wrinkled his nose and his eyes snapped open. ‘I suppose they,’ he motioned towards the food stalls, ‘are a good thing, to draw people in. But I wonder if the smell is healthy?’
‘Mrs Palmer is asking for whelks,’ said Alexander.
‘Oh no,’ said Mr Badcock, ‘you cannot eat whelks! Not at all, not you, Mrs Palmer, I am afraid. They operate on women in unfortunate ways. They contain certain minerals – zinc, say – which have properties of an aphrodisiacal nature. Spermatozoa, of course, contain zinc. So if a man eats whelks, he becomes more of a man. But a woman ingesting such a compound, hmmm, may also become more of a man! It would not be the natural order of things. An army of marauding women … Ah – and who is this?’ Mr Badcock asked, turning to the maid.
‘This is Jenny, my new maid.’
Jenny made a curtsy. Mr Badcock took up her hand, as if it were a great extravagance. ‘Charming,’ he said, though he stopped short of kissing it.
Jenny blushed and tried to smile. Rebecca pressed her hand to her stomach. Other women were eating at the stalls: those two there, slurping down their saloop from tin cups; that old lady in the faded hat at the eel stall, spooning jelly into her mouth from a filthy bowl. And at the whelk stall, a woman in a green dress. Her coat and hat were trimmed with matching brown feathers from a rarely seen bird, an owl perhaps. She was as thin as the most excoriating fashion demanded and yet her chin worked up and down as she spooned the rubbery whelks into her mouth.
The woman must have felt Rebecca’s eyes on her because she turned. She had the kind of face that was a resting place for the eyes, the kind of face that threw all other faces into unevenness. But her skin was too pale, almost colourless; she had not pinched her cheeks to redden them. Her teeth were uneven. And as she leaned over to get a napkin, Rebecca saw a stain spreading down from the armpit of her dress like a high water mark.
She had a mole on her cheekbone that was smooth, like a flattened piece of chocolate, and it struck Rebecca that she had seen it before.
‘She is here,’ hissed Mr Badcock. ‘I told her not to come.’
The front of the woman’s hair was frizzed up into a fringe that sat high up on her forehead. The back was plaited into loose coils and wound round and round and twined through with ribbon. She blinked.
‘Who is she?’ asked Rebecca.
The woman took a few steps towards them; Rebecca caught a glimpse of her leather boot poised beneath her high hem.
But Alexander gripped hold of Rebecca’s arm and turned her towards the pharmacy. ‘Stop the band, Mr Badcock, now!’
Mr Badcock pivoted away and gesticulated at the bandleader. ‘Stop playing this instant! Yes?’
The crash of the cymbals died in the air, the trumpet was put out, the monkey stopped dancing. Rebecca and Alexander came to the pharmacy’s window with just enough time for her to see the cut of Alexander’s cheekbones and the blunt outline of his jaw. Her own face was less resolute, a badly made image on a glass negative. The hurry had made Mr Badcock pant, the edge of his breath had something milky in it.
Now Alexander spoke: ‘Thank you to everybody for making the journey to North Bridge. We hope you enjoy our modest entertainments.’ He nodded to the brass band. ‘And we further hope that you will all use the occasion to visit our new pharmacy, which we have equipped with the very latest medicine.’
‘As well as medicine loved for generations,’ put in Mr Badcock. ‘All the traditional cures to which you are used. You will find something for everybody here!’
‘Thank you, Mr Badcock. And now, without further ado, let us declare the pharmacy open!’
They turned and watched Lionel as he made a swagger of opening the door with his great black key. Then five of them went inside, followed by a small crowd of every type.
‘Is he the apprentice?’ asked Jenny, as Lionel went up and down the ladder fetching things for them all.
‘Lionel? Yes. I think he will do well here.’
‘He is very smart,’ said Jenny.
‘I shall tell him so.’
‘Oh no, madam, please don’t,’ said Jenny.
‘Lionel, you are smart today!’ Rebecca called out to him.
‘For the Grand Opening, I should say so, Mrs Palmer. This came all the way from London.’ He pulled the edges of his waistcoat together, pushed out his bony chest and grinned.
‘London! Just for today?’
‘Oh, I’ve a cousin who is down there, in the clothes trade.’ He looked at Jenny. ‘Have you been to London, miss?’
‘No. I have only just got to Edinburgh a few weeks ago, and that is noisy enough.’
‘Aren’t there many carriages and people where you are from?’
‘None at all, for I live at the end of a track in the middle of a field. Lived, I mean.’ Jenny stood as stoutly as always, her hands clasped easily in front of her, but the tips of her ears were pink.
‘A sea sponge, Lionel, please, for the lady here!’ called Alexander. ‘I told you to fill the jar this morning.’
‘I don’t suppose there are boys like Lionel, either, in Argyll,’ Rebecca said.
‘Not many. A waistcoat like his does not do around sheep.’
Across the room Alexander said: ‘I did tell him, this morning, to fill the jars. I hope the boy will improve as time goes on.’
‘He is just a boy, yes?’ said Mr Badcock. ‘You can mould him to suit your needs.’
‘His mother relies upon him,’ Rebecca cut in, for she had been responsible for Alexander taking him on. ‘She swears he is a good boy.’
‘Mothers ought to think their sons good,’ said Alexander.
‘Except yours, hmmm?’
Alexander’s pale skin flushed, very slightly, along his cheekbone. ‘Let us not mention my mother today, John.’
‘She was not invited?’ said Mr Badcock.
‘She was not invited, no.’ Alexander blinked once and passed his hand over his eyes. ‘She does not often leave her house. As for my apprentice – I do not have need of a dandy in the shop. I have need of a worker.’
Lionel ran his hand through his hair and wiped his palms on the back of his trousers so that Alexander could not see. ‘Of course, Mr Palmer. I only tho
ught—’
‘Stop toying with the boy, Alexander,’ said Mr Badcock. ‘You will not get the best from him if he is afraid of you. Will he, boy, eh?’
Lionel shook his head, and then nodded it, and took a step back towards the counter, for the door had opened and the pharmacy was all at once filled with noise. A woman had come in with her baby, who was arched away from her hip and screaming. Dark circles hung under the woman’s eyes.
‘I cannot put him down and I cannot pick him up!’ she shouted over him. The baby started to sob harder, as if he understood. His face was all over red and twisted with fury or desperation. His cries came in a rhythm, as if he was praying to a foreign God: Allah, Allah, Allah!
‘What can I do for you?’ said Alexander.
‘My friend told me you could give me something to help the baby. The Quietness, she called it, though I don’t know its proper name.’
‘Good afternoon,’ said a voice quietly at Rebecca’s shoulder. It was the woman in the arsenic-green dress. When she spoke the tip of her nose waggled alongside her lips a little, as if her skin was pulled too tight. Rebecca glanced at her husband, to see if he had noticed. But the baby had taken all of his attention. She saw Mr Badcock smile, and almost wink at Alexander, and Alexander in his turn, reach over and tap Lionel on the shoulder.
‘Oh,’ said Rebecca. Close to, the woman was more beautiful, and more ragged. Her face was glossy but without health. Her skin was translucent, the bones very near the surface. There was a hole in the top of the first finger of her glove and Rebecca could see the end of a nail, and the dirt trapped under it.
‘My name is Evangeline – or Eva, as I have come to be known.’
‘Oh,’ said Rebecca again. ‘And I—’
‘I know who you are. You are Rebecca. I dare say I know a lot more about you than you do about me!’ Sweat broke out over Eva’s face. ‘Or at least, I know your husband. In a professional,’ she swallowed on the word, ‘sense.’
‘Oh?’ said Rebecca. ‘How’s that?’ She felt the first flutter of fear in her chest.
